


Gethsemane

by oceansinmychest



Category: Wentworth (TV)
Genre: Companions, F/F, Flowers, Gardens & Gardening, One Shot, Purple Prose, Season/Series 02, Talking, Tension, Unresolved Emotional Tension, Unresolved Romantic Tension
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-16
Updated: 2020-12-16
Packaged: 2021-03-10 18:22:14
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,756
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28101615
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/oceansinmychest/pseuds/oceansinmychest
Summary: Vera and Joan tend to Joan's garden, their own slice of paradise, for a time.
Relationships: Vera Bennett/Joan Ferguson
Comments: 4
Kudos: 24





	Gethsemane

**Author's Note:**

> This one has been sitting in my drafts for ages. Just now got around to finishing it up. Anyways, hope you're all safe. Be well and happy holidays. x

> “Won't you bring all the flowers you find out in the garden?  
> Don't tell me the truth: that your heart has hardened.”
> 
> _The Garden_ – Mirah

In prison, Governor Ferguson comes across as terrifyingly severe. Removed from the swollen, bloated body of the prison, two women seek solace – a reprieve from nagging minutiae. So rare are they able to afford a mutual day off. From either an odd miracle of artificial faith or the Governor’s mercy, they share the day together. Before the beheading of Holofernes, two women co-exist in mutual harmony. Outside, a warm, soothing breeze falls over them as heavy as the final curtain. A bumblebee flutters by, lazy from its dalliance with pollination. 

In the backyard, Joan’s sacred garden isn’t contraband, but it certainly _feels_ like it.

This is her private palace where the fruit offers serpent knowledge. She’s found sanctuary here. My, what a **welcome** change from the bureaucracy of corrections. Here lies a combination of flowers and vegetables; every crop is neatly groomed to prevent overgrowth. The shape of the bird mirrors a perfect oval, lined with stones, like a faerie circle to protect a hidden world from human eyes.

Ever the Creator-God, the rumors prove false: Ferguson _doesn’t_ have a black thumb. Here lies a valley where no evil transpires, overshadowed by the tranquility of the moment. No weeds run rampant here. From the house, a soft melody drifts and escapes through the window left ajar for fresh air.

In a flowing, cotton blue sun dress and strappy thongs, the Roman kind, Vera Bennett gives her wide-brimmed, floppy hat an anxious tug. Miss _Ferguson_ (Joan, she’s quick to correct herself, reminded of the pointed tone that the older woman takes) gave her simple enough instructions: _Wear something comfortable. Don’t bring anything, just your presence._

Rocking from the tips of her toes to the heels of her feet, Vera ignores the lump within her throat. A shame she didn’t bring a pair of shades to slip on; the rays of light cause her to squint. The lines around her eyes crease and crack. It’s a relief to be away from the childhood home she turned into her own vicious prison. 

For an hour, blue skies get swept away by overcast before the sun announces its golden return.

So, the apostle beholds archaic beauty. For the most part, Vera’s done her homework. Basil takes root. A patch of mint leaves slumbers in the nearby distance. She catches a whiff or rosemary, thyme, and scarlet roses. In awe, she looks about the yard. It ought to come as no surprise that Joan’s estate is just as impeccable as the prison she runs.

The sliding glass door inches open. With her hair pulled back into a prim ponytail, Joan Ferguson appears far less severe in black slacks and an emerald blouse, near sheer as the fabric bends to the whims of the wind. In her grip, she holds too tall glasses of mojitos. Ice chatters and clinks together, always a collision in the delivery. Her bare arms reveal a splattering of freckles and birth marks, often concealed by the tailored uniform.

Wordlessly, Joan hands over a cocktail to Vera. Thin, glossy lips curl with the ghost of a smile present. The reflective lens scrutinizes. Joan could feast upon this succulent morsel. Suck the juice, the life, right out of her.

“Thank you,” Vera chimes, meek and modest as a blush conquers her cheeks. “I needed this.”

What a loaded statement.

Joan husks a laugh and confirms that, yes, she knows exactly what Vera needs.

It isn’t a glass full of hemlock, but it is a little poison–a little influence–which Vera swallows willingly in once erratic, now steady gulps. The glass nearly slips from her clammy grip. The unspoken, but acknowledged appraisal of her body causes her to shiver. Like a hawk, the Governor watches her. Like a wolf, she devours with her heated stare. Vera swallows deeply. That fast-paced gulp doesn’t quench her thirst; her throat’s still scratching, still raw. She speculates on what could be, what won’t be, and what will be.

Joan, on the other hand, savors her drink and the spike of rum. She leaves her glass half-empty. It’s by no means Russia’s finest, though they have spoken about indulging in this cocktail for weeks. Now, she rewards her Deputy for good work, for her unwavering loyalty.

Listening to birdsongs and the hum of insects, Vera discards her ridiculously floppy, wide-brimmed sunhat. Sunburn vows to fan across the bridge of her nose. In synchronicity, they cast aside their bevvies. Their mojitos reduce to melted ice on the metal, grated patio table. 

With a crook of her finger, Joan guides the lamb not to the slaughter, but to the meadow – to her treasured garden. Banksia stand tall, their branches offering some shade and mercy from the blistering sun. A calm, cool breeze drifts by to interrupt the heat. The scent of fresh grass, fresher air relaxes and soothes these coveted, quiet moments. Like a kore, some spring maiden, Vera follows pursuit.

Here, everything seems so vibrant and green. Such abundant vegetation and foliage startles Vera. Immediately, she feels ashamed for being swayed by the prejudice of others within Wentworth.

Propped against the side paneling of her home, the tin watering can promises to rust. Joan leaves her gardening gloves behind in an organized plastic container, with a red lid, shielded by the patio’s overhang. 

A stray tom cat graces the garden, pokes out from behind some shrubbery, his whiskers picking up what his other senses lack. He flicks his tail, head held high on red alert. Joan has made it a habit to feed him, to prove her father - the terrible, cruel dictator that he was - _wrong_. But she doesn’t name him; naming him is too powerful an act, too large a commitment. A Russian blue abandoned and forced to endure the wilderness alone seeks solace here. Joan lets him sunbathe across the clipped blades of grass. She feeds him half a can of tuna upon a silver platter. He meows at her, purrs his content, and leaves.

“He seems afraid of getting too close,” Vera observes as more of an afterthought.

In response, Joan musters a low hum, the sound sending an electric current through her Deputy. She quirks a brow.

“There’s merit in objectivity, Vera,” Joan answers with a tut. Feigned disappointment strikes her disciple down. Puts her on human standing rather than some godly pedestal.

And so, they leave it at that. The stray darts off, lost to the thicket of bushes and over the pointed, wooden fence that protects Joan’s kingdom.

Exalted, Miss Bennett covets her position. Eventually, her awkwardness subsides. She finds pleasure in her regal company. Sizzling heat bestows Vera with a pleasant buzz while Joan educates her on frost dates. Overwhelmed by the multitudes of scents, the brilliant, shining sun licks at the nape of her neck. The skin there promises to burn. By the end of the day, she’ll be red and _sore_.

Watching, just as she’s been watched, Vera drinks in the sight of Joan bent in two. That rigid, impressive form folds at the waist, her fingers mimicking a pair of scissors as Joan holds the stem to a violet. Poses it to sniff at the flower.

Vera recalls how Joan first caressed the silken rose growing amidst the chaos and rot of Wentworth with delicate reverence. Maybe she isn’t as stone-hearted as Vera first suspected, once privy to prison gossip.

Pinching the stem, Joan severs the stem from the root. No scissors required. The pretty, purple petals remain resilient for now. The Governor raises to her full, impervious height despite the creak in her neck, the throb in her lower back. Her long, sturdy legs march with the precision of a toy soldier as a result of her father’s influence (a war lord before he was a diplomat). Swiftly, Joan moves to stand behind the smaller woman whose breath hitches to produce a musical melody, akin to a wind chime.

A presence lingers behind her: Joan’s shoulder and belly lightly press against the curve of her back. Her low, sonorous voice licks the shell of her ear and causes her heart to seize painfully. Vera acknowledges the insinuation accompanying Joan’s words, but she can’t quite identify the hidden agenda. Subconsciously or perhaps even wittingly, Vera leans against Joan. She savors the heat, the softness that betrays the militant edges of the Governor’s uniform.

“There is power both in giving life and taking it away,” Joan whispers into the shell of her cherry red ear. “Come with me.”

With ease, Joan could break her brittle bones. She eyes the knobs running along the nape of Vera’s neck. So, some profound tabula rasa becomes regarded as a woman.

In her subtle appraisal of Vera Bennett, she tucks a violet behind the shell of her ear. It’s the small deeds, the unspoken ones, that get sanctified. Treated with reverence, she plants the stem. A new gospel spawns from Jianna Riley’s sweet, honeyed influence. Could kindness be charade in this case?

Despite her coltish trembling, Vera grows as still as stone. She learns how to control her breathing. The floral scent overwhelms her senses. It’ll wilt, either the flower or their unholy union, whichever comes first.

“Ah, o-oh! I don’t believe I’d be very competent at gardening, Joan,” Vera begins, her cheeks hotter than hell.

Touched by simple-minded Vera’s astonishment, that awe and profound gentleness may as well lay Joan into the ground. In pleasure derived from the act of mere companionship, Joan regards the slope of Vera’s shoulder, her taut throat, her biceps revealed as a scrumptious morsel.

“You’re more than capable,” Joan observes in a calm, kind voice – soft and delicate – to deviate from her command, her strong hold over penitentiary blues.

Rid of the Socratic dialogue, a little praise goes a long way. Joan’s influence hangs over Vera, as thick and palpable as the air. Conversation fades. Instead, they divert their attention to the garden bed. Vera is first to kneel. Blades of grass bend to her will as she tugs on a pair of gloves with a gritty surface just perfect for gritting. She tills the land in the way that Joan just showed her – pale, killing hands digging in like some monstrous fury.

In such tender devotion, soil seeps through splayed fingers. Clumps of dirt fall to the ground. Like the grain from the sands of time, it all slips through.

“Certain situations warrant getting your hands dirty, Vera,” Joan remarks in an awfully droll tone that carries the undercurrent of amusement.

She would remember that.

The Promethean influence of Joan Ferguson looms over her, after all. Vera reflects on Joan’s knowledge in the courtyard, how she knowingly caressed the rose petals planted by an inmate. 

Within the confines of those bright gloves, Vera’s slight hands form crude claws. She’s clumsy, the sensation foreign to her.

Dirt may as well fill her pores. Downright tentative, she transplants fledgling seedlings from their plastic tomb to the garden bed. In the future, she will reap what she sows. The spade digs in and twists in a half circle motion. The rubber grip gives away from frequent use and age alike. A complete novice in the field, she buries the scattered seeds. A firm pat for good measure. In the art of horticulture, abhorrent secrets get buried.

Kneeling, she switches to a cross-legged, seated position to cultivate and shape life. Has Vera _ever_ felt so free? She places great faith in Ferguson. An outlier recognizes her own. This, Vera thinks, is the closest she’ll ever come to perfection, to feeling right. 

“We’re capable of achieving great things, you and I,” Joan muses, still flawless in her appearance despite the dew clinging to her trousers and the muck staining her fingers. 

Through gardening, they demonstrate a different side of the coin, an unfamiliar rigor that expresses an ineptitude to the totality of feeling. The work keeps them busy, every movement automatic. The toils of their shared labor place them at ease. Their bodies, their shadows, provide such stark contrast. With or without knowing, you emulate your idols.

Together, they nurture organic life. It’s a still, quiet moment - bred from mutual solitude - save for the sharp intake of breath. In a pledge of unspoken fealty, tilling the dirt with a connection to earth, no wishing well can bring them any closer. To work in concert signifies some semblance to _Deus ex Machina_. Here lies the bedrock of trust.

Then, she does something that completely surprises Vera. Joan leans in, presses her cheek against Vera’s, her chin grazing the slope of her shoulder.

“Go on,” Joan goads. “Get in deep.”

Vera shucks off the yellow gloves, golden from the smudges of wear and tear. Expressing the modicum of humility, Vera blots at the sweat collecting above her lip.

Through a guiding touch, Joan builds a legacy for Vera. Some edifice for her to stand upon alone. Although the Devil grips her by the shoulder and then the nape of her neck, Joan has her by the heart. 

Joan puppeteers her every movement, guides and dictates her actions, until she deems it appropriate for Vera to act on her own. The move is no different from a hummingbird coaxing a flower to open or a bee seeking pollination’s sweet, codependent release. Her stare drifts to a pulse point. If she were a ravenous vampire driven by bloodlust, she might strike. All that fawn-like trembling ceases once she fills a confident mold. The Governor has simply enhanced her capabilities. 

It doesn’t take much to woo her.

In this sliver of paradise, Vera basks in the amber glow of the sun and Joan’s warm affections. She can’t stop smiling. That cheeky grin won’t wipe off her face. This, this is tenderness, Vera convinces herself.

Dirt remains wedged under the bed of her nails as she drives her hands to till. Finally, something she hasn’t stuffed up.

In the courtyard of her kingdom, Joan kneels behind her looking as regal as a valorous knight. Barricaded by Ferguson’s bent knees and sturdy thighs, her bleating, little accolade finds her backbone. A pose alone devours and engulfs. The woman pressed against Vera doesn’t represent the replacement of a maternal figure. Oh, no. She feels warm, singed, still burning beyond the sun’s bloody influence. Consider this agony in the garden. Despite the sliver of tension, Sweet Lamb finds herself receptive to an empress’ tenderness.

With the gesture blanketed by serenity, Vera’s fingers spider along the crook of Joan’s elbow while she offers her profile as a sight to behold. She moves to grip her forearm in a loose, albeit secure hold. With a frazzled smile, she issues grace. Never has Vera been _this_ still.

What they do gets consecrated. Silent yearning tastes like a close approximation for love or the mutual adversity for respect. For Joan, the two are muddied, confused, conflicted. 

“You’re trembling,” Vera pries, with grace and tact, delicate in her deliverance. “Are you alright, Joan?”

Joan inhales sharply, the mere ministration of breath equal to the sharp strike of her fencing foil. Such gentleness takes her aback, and nearly knocks her from her pedestal. 

“Yes,” she collects herself, a hand squeezing Vera’s bicep in reassurance. “All is well here.”

Vera twists her torso to meet Joan halfway, to study that proud, noble profile from the indentation of her forehead to the slope of her nose to the pink sliver of lips. Her right thumb bends towards her curved, open palm. Her fingers flex, as if she moves to caress Joan’s jawline. Instead, she uses her mouth and lifts her body skyward, pushing the weight from her knees to her upper thighs to make that fiery contact.

Their lips meet as a gentle graze, an open invitation left unsaid, without any sultry provocation.

And so, there’s an exchange of hidden knowledge. And so, they kiss.

Frozen beneath that initiation, that savory invitation, Joan stills, akin to a rabbit caught in a snare, prey before the killing blow. She hasn’t had _this_ , **this** since – since the holy name she need not utter. 

An apology flies out instantaneously, though it’s evident that Vera holds no regrets. She desires and she yearns, a tale as old as time.

“Don’t be,” Joan drawls in the disguise of a heavy breath, a hoarse whisper, and for all the years that have passed, she means it.


End file.
